


Gently Into

by thelightsaberlesbian



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bottom Bruce Wayne, Love Confessions, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Top Clark Kent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 17:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30126105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightsaberlesbian/pseuds/thelightsaberlesbian
Summary: Bruce walks into his kitchen and finds Clark Kent waiting with two plates of clams and linguini. The night goes more strangely from there.In which Clark confesses his love, and asks for a single night to share it.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 9
Kudos: 190





	Gently Into

He notices the smell first. He notices the smell immediately, because Bruce catalogues changes in his surroundings with infamous paranoia. It’s not a bad smell. It smells...filling. Like noodles, with a hint of fish. 

Bruce takes his coat off, but not his suit jacket, and goes to the kitchen, footsteps carefully quiet. It’s highly unlikely anyone besides Alfred would be cooking in the kitchen, and he’d be alerted in the case of any kind of house breach, but still. It never pays to assume safety.

He edges towards his kitchen, ready to launch a defense, and then stops dead. Because Clark Kent is in his kitchen, setting the table.

Clark looks up from his plating. He’s not wearing the glasses, but not wearing the suit either, leaving him somewhere between Clark Kent and Superman. “Hey,” he says with a not-quite smile. It’s wrong on Clark’s face. 

Bruce is left standing, dumbfounded and wrong-footed, watching Clark garnish two bowls of noodles with parsley. Alfred nowhere in sight. Never a good sign. “What is this, Clark?”

“Linguini,” Clark says. He glances back at the stove. “And clams. White clam sauce. Simple enough, even for a Kansas boy, although Alfred was pretty strict on timing when he taught me the recipe.”

“Alfred...taught you the recipe,” Bruce repeats. The dumbfounded feeling grew stronger.

Clark glances up at him, something soft on his face for a moment before he smooths it out. “You look good. But you don’t have to wear a suit tonight. Go put on something comfortable if you want.”

 _You don’t have to wear a suit_. The words strike him hard, harder, he suspects, than Clark meant them. Bruce does retreat, and finds himself staring at his closet. He doesn’t really do casual, doesn’t really do being neither tabloid Bruce Wayne nor Batman, but he pulls out a t-shirt and a soft gray sweater anyway. He double-checks with Alfred that yes, Clark’s presence is intentional, no, he’s not under any kind of influence, no spores, no alien mind control, no weird Kryptonian chemicals. Just Clark. In his kitchen. Feeding him. 

Alfred also takes a moment to explicitly inform him that he “approves of Master Clark’s plans, sir” and then hangs up on him. _Hangs up on him_. Bruce walks back into the kitchen, because there’s nothing else to do. He takes a seat across from Clark, who smiles at him, a real one this time.

It’s weird. There’s no other word for it. But Bruce was raised to be polite, so he swirls a mouthful of linguini around his fork and tastes it. Clark watches as he swallows. Bruce clears his throat, says, “It’s delicious, thank you.”

“Compliments to Alfred, as I said,” Clark deflects, modest as ever, looking a little sheepish. It’s that that makes Bruce start to unwind, his shoulders coming down, his stomach loosening. He’s still wary, he’s always wary. But it’s Clark. Clark is loose-limbed, relaxed, in a casual blue sweater much the same as Bruce is in gray. It wasn’t intentional, Bruce thinks, wryly, but they do never seem to get away from their chosen colors. 

“What’s so funny?” Clark asks. His eyes light up, ready to tease.

Bruce shrugs, elegantly. He’s regained some of his equilibrium. It’s not the first time he’s had dinner alone with Clark, after all, just the first time in his house, and with no warning. “Your sweater is blue. Mine is gray. I assume it wasn’t intentional.”

Clark glances down at himself as if surprised. “I guess not. I certainly didn’t want us to be in uniform for this conversation.”

Bruce zeroes in on that last part. “And what is this conversation, Clark?” He lifts another forkful to his mouth, refusing to break eye contact.

Clark doesn’t say anything for a moment, his cheeks growing a little red. “Ah,” he fumbles.

Bruce steps in, ruthless now that he’s found a weak spot. “A simple seduction? Blowing off some steam with someone else who knows the secret? The idea has some appeal, I have to admit.”

Clark looks offended, opens his mouth. Bruce pushes on. “Or perhaps the rest of the League has decided they’ve had enough of me and are kicking me off the team?”

“No, Bruce—” Clark says, outraged on Batman’s behalf.

“Or perhaps, Clark, you’re here to tell me I’ve contracted some alien disease or other. Or maybe it’s that _you’ve_ contracted some alien disease or other.”

Clark has closed his mouth by now, and weathers it all with restraint, if not with stoicism. 

“Are you finished?” he asks, deliberately mild, taking a sip of his wine. 

Bruce arches an eyebrow at him. “Am I ever?”

Clark laughs, completely tension free. “I guess then the Bat wouldn’t exist.” He puts down his glass of wine, stands up, and strides purposefully around the table to Bruce, all his careful presentation forgotten.

“I assume we’ve come to the point,” Bruce says, because he’s a bastard sometimes and Clark knows that. 

Clark does know that. “You’re cruel when you’re confused or worried. Especially with me,” he says, and that takes the wind out of Bruce’s sails, some. He refuses to get up, though, to grant Clark that victory. Clark’s shoulders tighten, and he takes a deep breath. “All this is, is: I love you, and I want to spend the night with you. Just one.”

Bruce is on his feet before he can process it, snarling and putting his back toward the wall. “You don’t,” he says, gritting it out through his teeth. “You don’t.”

Clark doesn’t bother responding, just walks towards him, slowly and deliberately. Bruce’s back hits the wall. If it were anyone else, he would keep moving, find any of the numerous weapons he keeps concealed on the property, but Clark could break him in half in an instant, and Clark keeps his eyes on his and Bruce can’t seem to make himself do anything except flinch into stillness when Clark’s hand lands on his face.

“Look, it’s—it’s tactical.” Clark’s thumb strokes his cheekbone with unbearable tenderness. How many hours of training did this take? From the strongest man in the world, a man who could crush him without a thought, it’s not just softness, it’s _discipline_ , and that, more than anything, makes Bruce’s breath catch. Clark’s eyes hover at the base of his throat. Not ashamed, but resigned. “You and I know that—that there’s something between us. Something deep, something permanent. And we also know that you won’t let this _be_ permanent, not in a real way, not in a _vulnerable_ way, so…” Clark stops, takes a deep breath. Raises his chin to look Bruce right in the eyes. “One night, Bruce. That’s all. One night to acknowledge this and then we let it be.”

“That’s—it won’t work.” Bruce’s heart is hammering and Clark’s thumb is stroking right over his pulse point under his jaw. “It’ll just make it worse.”

“We all know your self-control.” Clark’s thumb moves in a smooth line down until it stops right under the point where Bruce’s sternum ends―a perfect, vulnerable path to his heart. “And I know mine.” It’s enormous, this trust, the way Bruce’s body trembles beneath Clark’s touch—light, so light, lighter than Bruce can even truly quantify because of the power that thrums through every one of Clark’s cells. There is gentle, and then there is careful, and Clark is both. Every action he takes is so measured—how did he not realize before?

Clark leans in, pausing right before their lips touch. Bruce makes no move to meet him. Clark’s mouth curves upward into a smile. “Please?” he murmurs, the warm air from his mouth brushing Bruce’s skin. 

Bruce is only a man, and Clark is more-than, and—

He leans forward just enough to meet Clark. Clark, who melts a little, like this chaste press of lips is a heady, passionate rush. Well, Bruce can do one better than that; he tilts his head and licks into Clark’s mouth, sliding his fingers into his hair to draw him closer, and suddenly there’s a feeling of air rushing past him and they’re in his bedroom. Bruce can’t even bring himself to be angry about it. He lets Clark swallow his inevitable gasp, scrapes his teeth against Clark’s pulse point, slides his hands beneath Clark’s undershirt, tugging it up from his belt. Clark lifts his arms obligingly.

He really is beautiful, Bruce can’t deny that. Especially right now, all that lush, seamless golden skin on display, literally saturated in sunshine. Bruce, by contrast, is covered in scars, no matter how well-healed, and he’s not body-shy, but he keenly feels the contrast between them, and the awareness that Clark can map out the differences between the textures of his skin very nearly to the microscopic. He rubs his thumbs across Clark’s nipples, a little rough, but Clark—

Clark is smiling again, a little helplessly this time. Like he’s really happy to be doing this. Like there’s _joy_ in this for him. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he says, sinking to his knees, fingers hooked on Bruce’s belt loops. Bruce lets him draw his pants and underwear down, divest him of socks and shoes and watches as Clark uses superspeed to do the same for himself before sliding his hands and mouth up Bruce’s thighs.

As arousing and arresting as it is—and it is, the heat coursing through Bruce’s body is of an intensity unlike he’s felt in years—to see the most powerful man in the world on his knees, ready to suck Bruce’s cock, he stops Clark with a hand in his hair.

“No,” he says, surprising them both. He swallows. “If we’re doing this, if we’re laying all cards on the table, then—I want you inside me.” It’s been a long time since he was shy about sex, shy about asking for what he wanted, but Clark is just so _sincere_ in everything he does that Bruce feels how the words rattle on their way out of his throat.

Clark inhales a shaky, sharp breath, stands, and moves to kiss him like this is too much to bear. He walks Bruce backward to the bed, sucking on his tongue, cradles his head as they hit the mattress as though he’s afraid of hurting him.

Clark takes a while opening him up. He’s gentle about it. He acts like they have _time_. Bruce wants to snarl, to buck his hips, to force Clark to get on with it so it can be over and a memory he can look back on with frenzied, punishing, aching regret he can press like a bruise over and over again, but Clark knows Bruce, Clark keeps a hand on him, right below his ribs, applying just the barest fraction of that incalculable strength, and keeps moving at his slow, safe pace.

Bruce flings an arm over his eyes. He _shudders_.

“Show me what you like,” Clark says. He kisses the inside of Bruce’s thighs, mouths at his balls and the soft place next to his hipbone. “I can’t read your mind, Bruce. Never could. Talk to me. Tell me.”

“More,” is all Bruce says.

Clark listens, he’s a journalist, he knows when and how to push, in words, in silences. He does ease a third finger in, carefully, snugly, rubbing the tips of his fingers against Bruce’s walls in slow, maddening circles. Despite himself, Bruce finds his hips trying to bear down just the slightest amount, his muscles twitching in an effort not to squeeze. 

It’s only partially because he’s resisting, still. Part of him just wants this to last as long as it can. If he doesn’t chase, if he just takes what Clark gives—

And oh, how Clark gives. He’s beginning to pump his wrist at a building pace, sending sparks flying outward down to Bruce’s toes, but his mouth, his _mouth_ is everywhere, reverence evident in Clark’s eyes fluttering half-closed, then snapping open again as if he’s forcing himself to watch, forcing himself to remember, because he knows he won’t get another chance.

Because he knows Bruce won’t give him one.

Clark’s fingers stretch just a little wider, pump just a little faster, curl just the right way, and Bruce’s back arches off the bed.

“Christ, you’ve had practice with this, haven’t you?” Bruce asks, laughing a little, breathless. He only sounds a little wrecked, although the effect is ruined by the way his thighs keep shaking. “I wouldn’t have guessed.” 

Clark grins and twists his fingers again, making Bruce bite back a curse. “Not all of us can be billionaire playboys, but that doesn’t mean I’m inexperienced, either,” he teases. And oh, he is a tease, moving his hand fast with _almost_ just enough pressure, _almost_ at the right spot, and Bruce can’t help it, he chases and lets his muscles squeeze just once to get maximum friction—and then Clark pulls out. Of course. 

Bruce groans and sits up on his elbows, panting. He hadn’t even realized he’s been breathing so hard, or that there’s a sheen of sweat on his chest. He feels a little drunk, actually, and he’s not sure how long he’s been here, how long Clark has been tirelessly pushing and pulling him to and from the edge. It’s disorienting. He normally is so strict about awareness of time in his body. He’s about to panic a little, to lash out, if only with words, when he’s arrested by Clark’s soft eyes.

“Stay with me,” Clark says, and god, where else would Bruce go? The vulnerability of this thought makes him angry, makes him _frightened_ , and Bruce lunges over to Clark, intent to bruise, and bites along his collarbone, his Adam’s apple, under his ear. Clark moans and moves with it, holding onto Bruce’s shoulders. “Do what you need to do,” he says. “Do what you _want_.” 

He lets out a cry when Bruce fists his cock, when he hooks an ankle around Clark’s thigh and pulls him down.

Clark is big, not especially long but solid and wide, and if he’s as good with his cock as he is with his fingers—Bruce growls when Clark places one hand on his ribs and the other on top of Bruce’s hand so they can slick up his cock together and start sliding it in. 

Clark goes slow—too slow, for Bruce. Bruce presses his hands to Clark’s cheekbones, surprising himself by brushing a lock of Clark’s hair out of his eyes automatically, as if it’s something he does every day. “Clark,” he says, voice caught between raw and growling, “I’m not going to break.”

Clark shakes his head, kisses one of Bruce’s palms, then his wrist. Bruce trembles under the weight of it, that emotion, before he can stop himself. “I’m not being careful,” Clark says, rocking his hips in with tiny motions, brushing a thumb under Bruce’s eye, as if there were tears there. “I’m savoring you.”

It’s a while later when he’s finally fully seated and Bruce almost doesn’t even notice because Clark has been sucking and licking at his neck, his mouth, his shoulder, and Bruce has been running his hands over every bit of Clark’s skin he could reach, tugging at his hair and feeling Clark arch against him and lifting his hips to meet him, feeling like he can just sink into this, like they can just sink into each other and disappear. And then Clark starts moving.

It’s torture, perfect torture, and Bruce can’t remember being fucked like this, ever, not with the way Clark brushes perfectly against his walls with every roll of his hips, not with the way he circles and makes his every nerve ending spark. Maybe it has to do with the way it feels less like he’s just fucking Bruce in and out and more like they’ve gone under some kind of tide, or maybe it has to do with the way Clark has placed them eye to eye, resting their foreheads together, because Bruce doesn’t have to be a detective to know exactly what that means. 

Clark wants to remember this. Clark wants to _watch_. It’s awful. It’s exquisite. 

“You really love me, don’t you?” Bruce asks, breathless, trailing a finger over Clark’s cheekbone, letting out a little _unh_ or two, or five, as Clark moves a little harder, a little faster at Bruce’s question. Like he can’t help it.

“So much more than you’ll let me,” Clark says, and he looks helpless with it, like he’s the one being fucked, not the other way around, and Bruce hadn’t thought he would feel more liquid desire rush through him at those words, but he hooks his ankles around Clark’s back anyway, to tell him _I’m asking for more now, I’m letting you now_ without having to say it. Clark keeps the faster pace, and Bruce starts to feel his stomach grow taut and heat build in his belly, and he can’t stop letting out little pants and moans at every motion of Clark’s cock against what feels like every part of him.

“I can’t—I don’t think I can live without this now,” Bruce gasps, feeling like the words are torn from him, from that oh-so-vulnerable place under his ribs where Clark’s hand still rests. If he wanted to—if he wanted to tear them, or anything else out of Bruce, he could. But he wouldn’t. That was Clark. He locks his arms behind Clark’s neck, pulling him down to hide his face in Clark’s shoulder, muffle his own gasping breaths.

And this was Clark, too, that Bruce knew he knew Bruce meant— _I don’t think I can live without you, now_.

“Look at me,” Clark murmurs, coaxing Bruce out, gently pulling away just enough to look Bruce in the eye. He’s smiling that not-quite smile again, and rolling his hips in such a slowed, gorgeous, inexorable rhythm that Bruce really thinks for a moment he might die, just like this, just from Clark’s skin against his, Clark inside him, Clark’s eyes not letting him look away. “You won’t have to,” Clark says, like it’s a certainty, like there isn’t Kryptonite in all the world, like he really is utterly invulnerable and timeless. “And I’ll live with that, if you’ll have me.”

It’s too much, it’s all too much, Clark’s naked, unashamed and earnest adoration, and the way he filled Bruce, sheltered him, with his arms and his eyes and this tiding, exquisite rhythm. The human body was so fragile, and the sheets and the mattress under it, and Bruce could feel all of it, in Clark’s gentleness—and the heat of him, so tight against his walls and spreading to his stomach, his thighs, his chest—

Bruce _squirms_ , fitful, in a way he hasn’t been for years during sex, needing more and less and _never-stop-forever_ and lets out a high, breathy moan that’s nearly a sob. “Clark. _Clark_ —”

“ _Bruce_ ,” Clark gasps, and they clutch at each other, Bruce clawing at Clark’s back because it’s suddenly important, so important, that even if they only last a moment that there are marks, and then he remembers he can ask—

“Kiss me. God, please—” His gasp is swallowed up by Clark’s mouth crushing to his, their tongues mapping each others’ mouths, pants from Bruce’s mouth meeting soft-growing-louder groans from Clark. He digs his heels into Clark’s lower back, lifting his hips to meet his pace as best he can, and Clark shifts the angle slightly, so slightly, but it’s enough. Bruce cries out, completely surrendering, and is gone, gone, _gone._ His orgasm seems to go on forever, bursting out to his fingers and toes, and settles in liquid and electric to the aftershocks. Clark fucks him through it and he feels more than hears Clark groan and stutter his hips, spilling into him, and then they’re still.

Clark is careful not to rest too much weight on him, but hasn’t moved, letting his cock soften inside Bruce, and Bruce hasn’t made him move. They catch their breath, still mingling.

Bruce still can’t look him in the eye, but he cards a hand through Clark’s hair and murmurs, “Stay. Please, stay.”

Clark sighs. “As long as you’ll have me.”


End file.
